


Peeking

by peggys



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 10:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14735252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peggys/pseuds/peggys
Summary: Steve lets you peek through his sketchbook and you find a few sketches of yourself that you'd never expected.





	Peeking

Steve’s out. He’s been on a run for God knows how long—you can’t be bothered to keep track—and you’re not sure when he’ll be back. He’s left the bedroom a mess; the bed unmade—even though he was the last one to get up, and, according to the rules you’d established once you’d moved in together, he should’ve made it —his clothes from yesterday as well as his pajamas that he’d changed out of just a couple of hours ago tossed onto the floor, a few books piled onto the desk, his notebook facedown, opened halfway down the middle with the pages pressing into the wood of the old piece of furniture.  _ That’ll ruin the spine _ , you think, and then remember that it was Steve who told you that the first time. 

So you walk over to it before you realize that you’ve never seen Steve’s drawings—outside of the very few he’s shown to you. But you’ve never his big ones, only the sketches of you that he scribbles out when he’s bored or when he comes home from missions and he takes the time to re-memorize your features by sitting back and drawing you reading or writing, maybe even enjoying a cup of coffee out of the balcony—anything that you do to calm yourself down. Steve always looked back at those particular drawings and smiled to himself, never bothering to fix them up, because he knew exactly what he was going for, and he remembers those moments perfectly anyway, so he doesn’t even need the messy, jagged sketches to remind him. He just likes them.

Your hand hovers over the leather-bound sketchbook, and you hope that it’ll be awhile before he returns. You know that going through the book without his permission is a violation of his privacy and if he catches you he’s got every right to yell at you and to be mad at you, but you pick up the book and turn it towards you anyway, feeling a twinge of guilt as you look at the art that covers the pages. 

You flip to the front and through the first few pages or so. On the first he’s done some shading practice; an apple in the center of the paper, covered in sloppy crosshatches, but if you squint and maybe hold the book just a touch further away your face, it looks put together and neat. You don’t even notice that it’s half-hearted and it was probably done late at night while Steve was drinking tea and sat in front of his favorite movie—The Wizard of Oz—for the millionth time until you bring it closer to your face again.

The second page features the unfinished profile of a man—you guess it’s Bucky, judging by the chin shape—his hair’s tossed over his forehead and you can see that Steve’s redrawn the nose about a thousand times.  _ He’s always had trouble with noses _ , you smile to yourself and flick your eyes to the third page you’ve opened to.

It’s you; messy hair, not paying attention, wearing a tank top with a strap falling off of your shoulder and down your arm with sweatpants. You’re standing in front of something, you’re most likely cooking, but all you can make out in front of you are scribbles that Steve didn’t care enough about to make into actual objects. He was very obviously more focused on drawing you and the way that your back hunches over the counter so subtly, and the way that those few pieces of hair in the back are never long enough to make it into your bun, and the way that—

“Hey, sweetheart.” You hear from behind you, and you’re sure that your heart’s jumped out of you and landed on the floor. Your right hand flies to your chest to make sure that your chest cavity is still full and your left still holds the sketchbook open. You turn to the familiar voice and you see Steve with his arms crossed, smiling his stupid, adorable, crooked smile, leaning with his shoulder against the doorframe.

“Hey, baby.” You smile at him and he nods to his open sketchbook in your hands, and before he can even ask about it, you’re already spitting out and stumbling over your words. “I-I’m sorry. I was cleaning, and I got curious, I shouldn’t have looked through it, I’m s—“

“No, it’s alright. You can keep lookin’ if you want.” Steve assures you, staying where he is and waiting for you to continue flipping through his sketches.

“You sure?” You ask, still feeling guilty, and he nods. 

“Definitely.”

You sit down on the disaster of a bed and criss cross your legs, setting the sketchbook on your lap as you flip through it. There are a few more inanimate objects and several more of you doing domestic things like cleaning and watching television and eating breakfast, but soon, you approach the middle of the pages and your breath hitches.

Your fingers delicately ghost over the dark, certain lines that join together to create two different drawings that you know for a fact that he didn’t use you as a model for because you would’ve noticed. These are from memory. These are from what amounts to hours of memorizing every single bump, curve, and scar that litters your body. You study these two drawings for a longer amount of time, amazed at the accuracy and the talent behind them.

You eventually start to turn the pages again, looking through the rest, and Steve remains against the door frame, staring you down from the other side of the bedroom. Soon, you close it and look up at him. “I had no idea you’re so talented, babe.”

Steve chuckles and looks down to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck as his cheeks flush red. “No, I—“

“Stop being so modest. You’re amazing at this.” You hold up the sketchbook for emphasis and stand before placing it down on the foot of the bed. You walk to the doorway and he straightens himself as he studies the way you move over to him. You wrap your arms around his neck and feel his hands on your waist as he looks down at you, waiting for you to make the next move. You gently press your lips to his before pulling away. “I love you.”

“Love you too.” He answers reflexively, but you know that he stills means it. He always has and he always will.

“How was your run?” You ask, pushing his hair out of his face and off of his forehead.

“It was good. Got some breakfast—took a bagel home for you, the chocolate chip one that you like so much. It’s on the counter, when you wanna have it.” Steve kisses you again, because your lips are addictive like a drug and he’s sure his withdrawals will start soon if his mouth’s not on yours.

“Thank you.” You stand on your tip-toes and he tilts his head down so that you can press your lips to his forehead. “Would you make the bed, please?”

“Sure.” He responds, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt without even realizing it.

“Thanks.” You say again, letting go of him and beginning to walk out of the room to toast and eat the bagel that he mentioned. Steve steps into that room as you’re almost halfway down the hallway. “Oh, and Steven?” You stop in your tracks and call to him.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“If I see that you’ve drawn me naked one more time I just might have to kill you.” You can’t see him anymore but you know that he’s blushing like crazy.

“Yes ma’am.”


End file.
